


Stick Shift

by anniesburg



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Car Teasing, Driving While Slightly Intoxicated, F/M, Face-Sitting, It Was Supposed To Be A One-Night Stand, Light Dom/sub, Oral Sex, Riding, Smut in Chapters 2 & 3, Speed Dating, Teasing, Vaginal Sex, romantic beginnings, safe sex, sub!Arthur, the opposite of slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 09:51:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18008681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anniesburg/pseuds/anniesburg
Summary: Arthur Morgan's been through a lot, but speed dating might be the worst thing so far.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i was gonna make this a one shot but it's spiralled out of control. ugh.

John’s going to swing for this, Arthur’ll tie the noose.

This place is sad, no two ways about it. He feels watched like a hawk by the women as he moves around the small collection of tables. All the anxiety of a blind date —on which too many he has been— is combined with rapid-fire conversation and too much perfume.

He never should’ve let anyone talk him into this. Arthur’s on the wrong side of thirty, he’s too old to be pushed around. But he admits that it gets lonely sometimes, getting him to say so’s the trick to making him fall like a domino. John knows him too well, the bastard. 

So he’s sat in a bar. It’s a tiny place with heavy, oak tables and plastic flowers coated in dust. The smell of booze and hairspray mixing is nauseating and Arthur takes another sip of his whiskey. It burns his throat in a distracting way as he waits for the woman across from him to be done talking. 

Arthur’s sure she’s nice, but he has a headache blooming at the back of his head from the stuffy air and no desire to hear the pitch of her voice any more. Ring the bell, he thinks, looking to glance at the woman running the event. 

Oops, the lady sitting at the other end of the table notices. He feels bad, especially because the expression of hurt on her face battles with the question of if she’s actually boring him. She is, he’s so sorry, but she is. 

He lets her finish talking about her mountain bikes, albeit with less enthusiasm. And when the bell rings, he tells her his name as she shakes his hand. It’s a gesture of apology, for not being able to feign interest for three goddamn minutes. But he notices with a backward glance that she doesn’t right it down

Arthur has a few minutes to himself to wonder why he’s still here, outside of just being polite. He’s going to go home alone regardless, at worst he’ll end up in the shower trying to wash away the memory. The future looks blandly unappealing. 

And then the bell above the heavy door rings, a new challenger has appeared. You’re late and seem only a little bit unhappy to disturb the current circulation of couples. The woman with the bell looks annoyed, she gives you a hard glare that you don’t see.

You’re too busy looking around the bar, your eyes landing on Arthur like he’s at the other end of a magnet. He mills about at the bar waiting for the few, precious seconds between his next unfavourable encounter.

“Hey, cowboy,” it’s not a question and Arthur looks back at you with no further indication needed that you’re speaking to him. “got here late, would you oblige me?” 

You gesture one of the unused tables in the corner of the bar, snatching up a pencil and a name card from the woman with the bell before gliding towards the table. Arthur blinks and he follows. 

“Sure,” he takes a seat across from you, avoiding the eye of the women he’s disappointed at his back. But everyone here’s an adult, even if they’re breaking the rules. The bell rings and the miniature date begins. 

You’re pretty, leaning towards him with your elbow on the table. He conjures up the basic mantra but it doesn’t feel right when it’s delivered to you. 

“Name’s Arthur, I’s an art teacher at the high school in town,” he feels compelled to take a sip of the whiskey that’s been calming his nerves all evening, but he realizes with a stab of regret that he left it at the bar. 

“You’ve hated every second here, haven’t you?” You ask, your smile hits him like blunt-force trauma to the head. It’s shockingly warm and knowing. “You’re regretting everything.” 

“Bet’cha everyone here is,” he confesses, rather than trying to refute it. “I ain’t cut out for this.”

“Mhm,” you say, tracing a nail around the box where you’re supposed to write his name. You haven’t yet. “I’m only here ‘cause my sister likes to stick her nose where it don’t belong. It’s why I was late.” 

“Funny enough, I’m here ‘cause my brother does the same.” He smirks a little at the coincidence, as do you. 

“He got someone?” You ask, an odd question for sure but Arthur still nods.

“Married. Got a little boy,” he wants to know why he’s talking about John’s family but your face pulls into an expression of sympathy.

“That’s nice,” your eyes flit over his face just once. “so, do you like to be alone or—”

“No,” he cuts you off. “God, no.” Arthur fumbles for the right words. “It’s just hard to keep track of life sometimes, of people.” He remembers the tips John gave him before pushing him through the bar door. He’s given up on most of them.

“I get it,” you say with more vulnerability than he expects. “I’m lonely, too.” 

Arthur’s unsure how to respond, he wishes he had his whiskey. He wishes he were in his truck bound for home but both are a bust. Your tired smile shifts just slightly, however, just in time. 

“You’re handsome,” you tell him, tilting your head. His eyes are like a lakeshore, cool-toned and shades of green and blue. Arthur blinks, his eyebrows raising. 

“Thanks,” but it sounds like a question. “you ain’t—” he debates lying. You ain’t so bad yourself. But he knows it’s not true. He cuts himself off then hastily adds before the remark comes across as offensive, “you’re a beauty. Thought that soon as I saw you.” 

“Bet you’ve said that to every girl here tonight, Arthur,” you say. Oh, he likes the way his name sounds on your tongue. 

“Wouldn’t tell just anyone that I’s a sad sack’a shit,” he replies, “so you gotta be special.”

“Oh, I feel it,” you return with a giggle caught on the end of your sentence. It makes his heart lurch. “what the fuck are we doin’ here?” 

“I dunno,” he admits. You’re still leaning close to him, fixated on how lost he looks. You get it, it’s hard having nobody and no time to change that. But this— you glance around the bar in a different way than he did before, this is not the way to do it. 

“Listen—” you start, suddenly lacking that aloof approach to deep truths that ensure no matches get made. “I don’t know you, but—”

Arthur puts his elbows the table. It’s a quiet gesture but it still speaks to you. 

“You wanna get out of here?” You ask him, there’s a note of finality to your voice. “I mean—”

“Sure,” Arthur can’t help but feel stupid for repeating it. But he does want to leave, and he wants to leave with you. It might save this evening from being a total waste of his time. 

He glances towards the door, accepting that pissing someone off by leaving early is bound to happen. But there’s a lot to see in this world, why waste time here?

“Then, come on,” you start, your smile has enough energy to power the southern states. You rise from the table before the bell can even ring. So much, too much has happened in under three minutes and Arthur has to wonder if you’re feeling as dizzy as he.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s been years since he felt this excited for anything involving a woman. You breeze towards the bar door, waving away the now-properly angered organizer. Arthur feels tugged by you, by some invisible string. That is, until you turn and snatch his hand up in yours. 

With the link made physical, you pull him from the oppressive atmosphere into the fading light of a grey day. 

“If I’m lucky, they’ll ban me or somethin’,” you joke. Arthur chuckles, actually chuckles and the noise sounds foreign to his ears. “all right, your place? Unless you got a roommate.”

“Oh—” Arthur figured this would be the direction you wanted to go in. No, figured isn’t right. He hoped. His grip tightens on your hand. “I don’t got one, no. We could— come on.”

You’re tugged away from the front of the bar, through the parking lot and towards the empty highway. A massive, black pickup truck dwarfs the cars parked on either side of it. 

It suits him, or at least part of him. You can’t help but wonder at the dissonance between a high school art teacher and owner of a beastly machine like this. 

“You mind if I drive, handsome?” You ask, wanting to see how much he’ll let you get away with. A new contradiction has appeared, you’ve noticed. He’s a big, tough man who likes taking orders.

“Uh, sure. But it— it’s a stick shift—” he stutters out, pulling his keys from his pocket. You make a face, changing direction and moving towards the passenger seat.

“Oh second thought, you’d better drive.” You admit with a glare directed at his obvious smirk.

“What’s this, can’t drive stick?” He asks. He opens the door for you and you wonder where on earth this wonderful man has been hiding. Taking his hand, you get in the truck.

“No, for your information.” You reply with a little fresh annoyance. This is stupid, you realize, dangerous. But the way he smiles at you makes something in your chest melt.

“Awh, I’s just teasin’. Could teach you sometime.” He offers up. Arthur leans against the truck door and that melting sensation shifts dramatically to something deeper. Too good to be true looks at you with sea-foam eyes. He’s smiling at you. 

You feel like a teenager again, able to fall in love in three whole minutes. Maybe there’s something to this speed-dating thing after all. 

“My God. Get me outta here, cowboy. Take me somewhere nice.” You tell him, smiling back with an air-light and nervous quality. He gives one, sure nod and closes the door. 

Arthur’s ashamed to admit it, but he might have to cut John some slack. The night’s looking up after all. 

The highway looks faded under a grey sky. Winter’s coming to its natural end but not soon enough, the grey beast of February still has more joy to eat. But not yours. You warm your hands by the heater and take in the wealth of personality contained in the front of his pickup truck. 

It’s cozy, well-cared for. Tapes of country music, mostly Dolly Parton are arranged neatly below the stereo. Just below the dashboard is custom-engraving, it looks like a name. 

“Boudicea?” You ask as he pulls away from the bar and starts in the opposite direction of the way you came. Arthur heads towards the farmlands that border the city, towards the unbecoming of civilization. It suits him. “You named your truck?”

“I did,” he replies, glancing at you. “there’s an ode I like about her, by Cowper. She was an enemy of Rome.” 

“Sure you're not an English teacher?” You ask, all teasing in your tone. 

“Yes ma’am,” Arthur still nods. 

The ride goes by slowly, you’re on the edge of your seat. Nerves prick at your stomach, uncertainties you thought you left behind in the younger years of your life. He likes you enough to take you home, you ration. 

You look at him. You want to touch him, so you do. 

Arthur’s thigh tenses up when you rest your hand on it. He can’t help it, it’s learned behaviour. He looks to you again, all pretty in the fading light of an ugly day. You’re smiling at him again like you’re holding on to a secret. Your palm is warm against his jeans, your thumb tracing circles. 

Do your know your touch is electric? It makes him want to kiss you, to throw you off your game. Clearly, you know what you’re doing, but the looks you give make him feel special in spite of that. 

He wants to be loved, deep down. Arthur supposes lots of people do, but with your hand on his thigh proving to be the greatest distraction of his life, it occurs to him that he’s not admitting the full specificity of his desires to himself. He wants to be loved by you.

But instead, Arthur just leans towards you. He doesn’t let himself go rigid and unwelcoming when everything about you is so inviting.

You touch him with a purpose, although to what ends he can only imagine. Arthur likes to think that he wasn’t obtuse at some point in his life, but the sharpness of his senses has dulled ever so slightly as of late. But his knee pushes out under your palm.

And your hand moves, down towards his inner thigh and applying affectionate pressure. You’re so gentle with him, touching him with a kindness he does not expect. And yet your fingers could easily be on fire, your intent is loaded and he understands that the higher you explore. 

He lets you because, as he said, he’s lonely. He’s dying to feel something from someone else, even a relative stranger with a smile that sets his insides alight. You’re noncommittal, refusing to push towards impropriety even when you’re already in the passenger seat of his truck en route to his home. 

There’s silence, but it’s an acceptable thing. You feel no need to speak, no need to clarify your intentions. They read loud and clear as you press the heel of your palm between his legs experimentally. 

“Come on,” Arthur says, he doesn’t know why. But your eyes flash with something lustful that sets his cock stirring. 

“You haven’t veered off the road yet,” you comment as if that justifies you toying with him. He likes it, he lets it be known by the way he straightens up. “does that feel good, Arthur?” 

“Yeah,” he replies a little too quickly for his taste. But you seem unperturbed, touching him gently as if scoping out his assets. 

You whistle, just once and quite low. It’s enough to make his cheeks burn. 

He feels big, twitching in his jeans and in his seat. Arthur shivers involuntarily. It’s been too long since someone else put their hands on him. He doesn’t practice self-love with this much reverence. 

“Eyes on the road, cowboy,” you say and Arthur aches to hear his name again. He never thought it could sound like that from someone he knows nothing about. He keeps it to himself, just barely.

And he listens to you, he looks at the expanse of highway that’s dull and cracked as the sky overhead. It’s not much of a drive but you seem set on making it interesting. 

“Where do you live?” You ask like your hand’s not palming at him. Arthur exhales slowly. 

“I got a farmhouse a couple miles out,” he says, “fixed it up a few years back.” 

“I’ve only ever lived in the city,” you tell him, “but I think I could like the country.” You give him a purposeful squeeze, just to hear him groan. The sound is like music. 

“You’re real keen, ain’t’cha?” He asks, half-intending it to be a joke. But you look at him with such intensity he has to fight not to stare. 

“Maybe you weren’t payin’ attention,” you start, “but when I tell a man he’s handsome I ain’t just tryin’ the fill the silence.” 

“Oh,” Arthur says. He doesn’t know how to respond. 

“And while you might think otherwise, not just anybody gets to take me home.” He nods at that, in agreement. 

“This ain’t— this ain’t how it is for me usually, neither.” He confesses, you nod. You know how it’s like for him under normal circumstances, you’ve lived it. 

“Guess you’re not usual.” You mutter and it’s everything in Arthur not to stop dead right here. He feels the urge again. You’re beautiful, commanding and he could make a home for himself too easily in your readiness to praise him. 

“Be there soon,” he says, unsure if that’s to reassure himself or you. His jeans feel very tight. 

“Mhm,” you hum, turning your touch a little lighter. God, he thinks, you’re going to be a tease. Where have you been for the last four, awful years of his life? 

He turns off the paved road onto gravel some distance away from the farmhouse he spoke of. It looks clean, well-put together but standing next to a ramshackle barn. Perhaps it was painted red half a century ago, but now it’s faded and worn. 

“That’s it, there,” he says. You give his bulge a final pat that sends a his heart stuttering before putting folding your hands in your lap. “never quite got ‘round to fixin’ up the barn, though.”

“It looks like heaven,” you comment. And you’re right. An oak tree shades the right side of the house, the green yard pokes through old snow in a way that’s hopeful. Even the oppressive last stand of winter, this place is beautiful. 

“S’all right. Quite the commute, but I couldn’t live in a city. Too much noise, too many folk all livin’ on top of each other.” He says. Distantly, you nod. 

“I never really thought you could have any fun out here,” you say. Arthur rolls his shoulders, hoping you haven’t suddenly forgotten about what you were doing since you left the bar. 

One look at you tells him you haven’t. 

“Lots to do out here,” he says. Arthur’s brain is lust-addled, he knows it. You’ve given him tunnel-vision. “and it’s nice’n quiet.” 

“For now.” You say. You turn to him and your laugh breaks the stillness. “Oh, Arthur, don’t look so scared.” 

“Ain’t scared.” He defends, pulling towards the front of the house. “S’just been a while—”

“I could tell.” You sound ready to be vulnerable again. He welcomes it. “It’s been a long time for me, too. I’ll go easy on you.” 

“Thanks, I guess.” Arthur says, a laugh of his own caught in his voice. It makes you brighten. 

He parks the truck near the front of the house, straightening up and fishing his keys from his pocket. Arthur starts out into the February air. You follow, moving to open the door but he beats you to it. You step from the truck with his help, again. 

“Welcome,” he says, nodding towards the house. You follow close behind, already feeling the creeping chill. The door can’t be unlocked fast enough, Arthur wastes no time in ushering you inside and closing it behind you.


	3. Chapter 3

Someone taught him how to be a gentleman, you think as he takes your coat from you. The tension in the truck has been compromised by a chance in location, but there’s still that familiar electricity when your hand brushes his. 

It’s warm in here, you shadow him as he turns on lights. There’s a glow from an iron stove in the centre of the living room, flanked by an assortment of mismatched furniture. Overstuffed sofas surround a heavy coffee table laden with books and pencils. 

An easel stands in the corner, bearing a canvas painted night-sky blue. Arthur notices you staring. 

“Just a work in progress, not sure what I’m gonna do with it,” he tells you. You nod. 

“So you’re an artist,” you say, “I get why you lead with teacher, but I’ll bet you’re real good.” 

Arthur pauses, leaving the kitchen and standing by you at the back of the couch. You notice the signs of life, the sugar in coffee in labelled tins. The box of chamomile tea on the counter. He stares at the demure canvas and then at you.

“I’ll show it to you once I figure out what to put on it,” he says, and he’s embarrassed that it sounds more like a question. Slowly, you nod. 

He’s close to you, radiating warmth and safety. You want to kiss him now, just as you wanted to touch him before. Perhaps things are moving to fast, you’re on a trajectory that is out of control, but you tilt your head and lean a bit towards him.

Arthur understands. You’ve put your hands on him before you’ve kissed him and he’s quietly relieved you’re inclined to change that. Your hands on his chest are most welcome. 

Kissing has always been something of a mystery to him, but you know your way around the act like it comes as easy as breathing. Arthur’s swept up again in the heady feeling of being so deeply wanted, of knowing that his lips on yours are all that’s crossing your mind. His arms wrap around your waist out of instinct, pulling you flush against him.

The delude between lecherous acts in the front seat of his truck and now felt oddly comforting, he realizes as it becomes something of a bridge. You’re touching him again with that same, burning intent. 

Arthur’s not sure he’s comfortable with the quick shift from stranger to lover on his part. A sensible man, he knows, wouldn’t care about the future. He would take comfort from the body offered up to him, but he is not that brand of carelessly indulgent any more. 

He’s thinking about tomorrow, you can feel it in the way he goes rigid. You gentle your touches, moving your hands up his chest to the buttons on his shirt. 

“Talk to me,” you tell him when you pull away, “you don’t know me, but you can talk to me.” 

Arthur can’t, he knows he can’t. Because he’s not sure if he’s crazy about your or just the idea of being picked. Out of a room of twenty men, he got chosen. He wants that feeling to last forever. 

His hands cover yours, but not to stop you for long. He pulls you off towards the hall that leads away from the kitchen, towards the bedroom.

There’s more books in here, open sketchbooks and a leather-bound journal next to the lamp on the bedside table. His bed’s unmade, plaid sheets on display and you smile at the sight. This place looks lived-in and everything so well-loved.

Except for his person, you notice. You start to undo his shirt again with a little more insistence. 

He’s well-built, tanned and broad in the shoulders. Arthur’s chest is begging to be kissed and, before he’s even half-naked you oblige. Above you, he sighs and his hands grip at the fabric of your blouse. He pulls it from your pencil skirt, sliding his warm fingers over your bare skin. 

“C’mere,” he sounds hoarse, pulling you tighter against him. He wants you bad, you can feel it against your thigh, but he wants intimacy more. 

“I’m here,” you remind him. You’re as close to him as it’s physically possible to be. “I’m right here, Arthur.”

The clothes come off fast, your insistence seems to rub off on him and he would very much like to have his skin against yours. He’s so incredibly warm, you kiss everywhere that is revealed to you. Pauses happen for breaths, but never in your life have you let lovemaking devour your senses like this before.

He’s of two minds as to how he wants to take off your skirt. Arthur pushes it up the curve of your ass, feeling your rear through nylon and lace. But it’s not the best method to discard it, you note and momentarily relocate his hands to your hips so you can unzip and cast off what hides your lower half from him.

Arthur knows, at least, how to undo your bra. That seems to be a point of pride for him and the moment it’s off, he dips his head. His mouth is rough against the tops of your breasts, scraping five-o’clock shadow and teeth over your soft skin.

He likes the way your fingers feel running in his hair, the way you gasp your name as his tongue circles your nipples. His hands are similarly calloused and hard, kneading and squeezing at where his mouth neglects. 

Arthur feels your lips brush the top of his head, feels the tug on his hair as you brush it back away from his forehead. He could have this forever, he realizes. He wants it for twice as long. 

No longer fixated on your breasts, he moves his arms to grab you around your thighs. In a single, swift motion, he picks you up. You shout in surprise, terror morphing into laughter as he carries you towards the bed. You brace your hands on his shoulders, kicking off your heels and leaving them scattered on his bedroom floor. 

He puts you down on the bed, encouraging you to lift your hips so he can rid you of your nylons. You help push them down your thighs, your panties following suit. He’s in his jeans, but not for long. 

“You’re—” Arthur stops for a moment, entirely transfixed by the sight of you lying in his bed. You fold your arms above your head, smirking at him. 

“Take off your pants, cowboy,” you tell him. “I know I’m beautiful.” 

Arthur works his belt off, unzipping his jeans. They join your nylons and panties by the side of the bed, forgotten as he turns his eyes back you. They’re lust-filled, attentive and watchful. 

It’s a surprise to him when you sit up, throwing your arms around his neck and pulling him down beside you on the bed. 

“I like to be on top,” you tell him, but you haven’t moved to straddle him yet. Arthur nods, furiously so and you can’t help but giggle at him. He lies down fully, dropping his head on the pillows as you move to sit with one knee on either side of his chest. 

His hands on your thighs feel nice, but you pull them away by the wrists. Holding his hands above his head, you pin them in place a quarter of the way up the headboard. Arthur’s reaction is immediately. 

He doesn’t thrash, he doesn’t fight. He groans and goes quite slack, letting you keep him there. The man is muscle incarnate, if Arthur didn’t want this you know he could push you away. 

“You like that?” You still have to ask. He nods very pointedly, offers up a hoarse yes but clarifies no further. 

You look so good above him, backlit by the grey day fading to dusk from the open window. You keep one hand at his wrists, holding him in place with a gentle grip and reaching the other behind you. 

Arthur shivers and sighs when you take his cock in your fist, continuing the teasing that you started in his truck. It feels better than he could’ve imagined, your soft touch is like a live wire against his skin. 

He tries to remember the last time he felt this way. It embarrasses him that he doesn’t recall the tumble with Eliza. And Mary— Arthur looks at you, grinning down at him with so much enthusiasm in your eyes. 

Mary didn’t quite do this to him. 

His hips rock, he begins to fight at the way you’re pinning him and almost immediately he’s released. There’s a look of worry on your face that Arthur attempts to remedy by seizing your hips. 

He pulls, unceremoniously and you giggle. You understand what he wants, beginning to shift forward with Arthur’s help until your thighs frame his head more-so than his hips.

“You’re kinda perfect, you know that?” You ask. Arthur doesn’t, but he offers up no response except for a quiet noise of insistence, lifting his head and touching his tongue to your folds. 

You brace yourself, putting your forearm to the wall behind his bed as Arthur squeezes your hips. He’s done this before, you can tell. His mouth is warm, wet and exploratory, tasting you with none of his earlier hesitance. 

He’s missed the weight of a woman above him, her sighs and gasps filling his head. The hand not braced against the wall goes to his hair, pushing it away from his forehead and keeping him steady. 

Arthur laps at your clit expertly and it doesn’t take long for his name to tumble from your mouth. He could die happy, hearing that, he’s sure. 

The benefits of country living are immediately made clear to you when his tongue pokes inside you. You hiss, a habit urbanization has instilled and Arthur presses his fingers into your skin. 

You say his name again, louder and more desperate, leaning your forehead against the wall and pulling hard at his hair. He grunts between your thighs, a noise of pleasure to him and a cause of alarm to you. 

“Oh, sorry—” you say, sounding breathless already. It makes his heart skip a beat. Arthur pats your hip just once and you raise yourself up on your knees. 

“M’fine,” he says, licking his lips. He tries to tug you back to him. “pull as hard as you want. Just get back here.” You nod, a little shaky and lower yourself closer to his mouth. 

He’s more firm with his ministrations, now. Arthur’s never been one to usurp control where lovemaking is concerned, but he feels compelled to prove himself competent in this area. 

If the sounds you make are any indication, he’s doing all right. The pain in his neck that never seems to go away yells at him like a voice at the end of a tunnel. It stings as he lifts his head but Arthur considers what’s in front of the lesser of two evils by far. He tastes you over and over again without a shadow of a doubt that it’s what he wants. 

True to your word, you tug his head where you’d like it to be. Your grip is gentle but he wouldn’t dream about testing it in the slightest. Arthur’s eyes close in focus, but only for a moment. He misses watching your expressions above him. 

To his surprise, you’re the one to push away. You take to your knees again, sitting back on his chest and pausing for a moment, Arthur isn’t sure how to feel about the way you look at him. He’s known you two hours at a liberal guess, and yet you smile at his flushed cheeks and lidded eyes. 

“Don’t want to get too comfy,” you tell him with a smirk that borders on fox-like. He doesn’t fear you, but he wants to listen to you. So despite everything in him demanding he haul you back to his mouth, Arthur lets you go.

“Condoms’re in the drawer,” he tells you, gesturing with his head to the table sittinf bedside. You reach for it, crawling off of him and opening the nightstand. The foil crinkles under your fingers and you rip the package open. 

Arthur takes a moment to be selfish, touching your soft waist as you move back to him. He watches you roll the condom down his cock, your fingers the first skin-on-skin contact he’s had yet. His eyes close but are soon coaxed to open again when you reposition yourself with his hips flanked by each of your knees.

Picking his arms up, you put them back above his head. Arthur grunts in approval, adjusting to the feel of your hands around his wrists again. He wants to grip your hips how he did, but needing to grab them for leverage is no longer an excuse. 

Arthur watches dully as your hips lift, clearly your patience is running thin. You sheath him in you with an expertise he’s unaccustomed to, taking him in and lowering yourself until your hips could lock with his. 

It’s a tight fit, Arthur’s packing an impressive length. He looks about ready to come on the spot.

You go slow, the rock of your hips almost infuriating after occupying him with teasing and your own pleasure. But Arthur finds the power shift, the way you lean over to him to be exactly the way he needs it. And when you dip your head, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth he lets you know how much he likes it. 

“You feel—” he starts, unsure of how to phrase it in a way that won’t offend. But his eyes close instead, a rumbling moan is tugged from his chest. You kiss him again. You understand.

Your face feels hot as you start to pick up the pace, riding him with a leisure that accompanies comfort. You’re comfortable with him. You don’t know him but you like him anyway. 

The way you bear down around him, moving in minute but powerful ways sends him reeling. Arthur doesn’t push too hard against your grip, he’s familiar with the game and he very much wants to play it. But just as his hips rise up to meet yours in an subconscious but delicious way, so too do his wrists rebel against your hands. 

“Ah, ah, ah—” you tut. Maybe you don’t know him, he forces himself to remember it over and over. But you understand him. you lean forward a little more, putting extra pressure on his twitching wrists. “behave.”

And he wants to, he wants to absolutely. Arthur’s cheeks must be burning red, he doesn’t know how to hold back a whimper when you kiss his forehead with an unknown gentleness. You’re finding the whole experience highly satisfying, moans tugged from your throat with urgency. And the occasional giggle.

“What’re you laughin’ at?” Arthur sounds strung-out, you’re pushing him towards release and he’s not ready for it. You’re barely moving and still unravelling him. 

“Sorry, baby,” you say. And maybe he could like being called that. “I’m just havin’ fun.” He believes you, believes that you’re not laughing at him so much as you are enjoying this. It’s been a while since anyone’s taken anything from his body. This, he realizes, has never been so freely given.

You adjust your grip, shifting his wrists to only one of your hands. The other is drawn between your legs, to the sensitive bundle of nerves he can’t see at this angle. But he can feel how touching it makes you flutter around him. A small part of him wants to help, a much larger demands that he not. You know what you’re doing, hot and wet and tight around him, touching yourself with practiced ease. 

It’s becoming more of a race, Arthur realizes. How long you can hold out versus how tight you can hold him back. The later wins and to keep yourself from pitching forward, you move your hand and brace it against his chest. 

You look up at him, still smiling and Arthur rolls his shoulders. He keeps his arms above his head. 

“Touch me,” you say. He is under no impression that you’re asking him but nevertheless, you needn’t speak it twice. His hands go to your thighs, your hips. His fingers are rough and they want to feel all of you. 

It warms him to think that was the missing component. Your hips, still jerking lazily stutter with a newfound life. You buck against him more wildly, the smile leaving your face to be replaced by a look of lax appreciation. 

You come around him and Arthur isn’t far-off. He thrusts more insistently now that he has something to hold on to. Both your hands are to his chest now, your nails digging at him in a pleasant way. 

Arthur comes with the sound of your name garbled in his throat, he hears you giggle weakly. You move your hips out of courtesy, helping him through his own orgasm with more enthusiasm than he expects. When he’s done, he angles himself a little to the side and you move off of him.

The condom’s tied off and discarded. You lay next to him, boneless. It’s extremely difficult for him to tell who’s in who’s arms. He’s entwined with you and can feel your heart beating against his own, just a ribcage away. Your breathing is heavy, like you’ve run a marathon instead of just moved against him minutely. 

“That was pretty good, Arthur,” you tell him. “for I-met-you-at-speed-dating sex.” Arthur’s chest rumbles with a laugh. 

“Not too bad yourself,” he says like he’s administering some great compliment. “almost told you no. Only ‘cause there’s some real bad guys out there, I’ll bet.” He has to stop himself from counting himself among them right away. He has to let himself have a chance with you. 

“I weighed my options and you seemed like a pretty good choice.” You say. Arthur lifts his head a little. 

“Really? How so?” He asks. You give an exhausted half-shrug.

“You seemed sweet. And you’re a man who drinks chamomile tea.” You reply like it’s easy as that. Arthur feels another laugh bubbling in him, it’s as strange as it’s ever been. 

“I don’t sleep much,” he says. “had some health problems a few years back.” 

“You wanna talk about it?” You look concerned all of a sudden, Arthur wishes you wouldn’t. 

“Nah, nah, it ain’t—” he cuts himself off. You understand. To say it wasn’t a big deal would be a lie. You lean forward, kissing him carefully. 

“You can try to get some sleep now,” you offer up. “I’m gonna, f’it’s okay with you.” 

“Sure, ‘course,” Arthur fumbles. Like you have to ask if anything’s all right by him, now that he knows it’s going to be difficult to go back to life without you. “you have a rest. I won’t snore, promise.”

That last part’s selfish, he wants to hear you laugh and it’s like music when he does. Your eyes close, you press yourself to him and he knows when you’ve fallen asleep. Somewhere in the space between dusk and dawn, he does as well.


End file.
